


Reception

by fawatson



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duv Galeni and Delia Koudelka take their first trip to Komarr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zimra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:**  
>  I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
> 
>  **Prompt:**  
>  Delia/Duv - the two of them dealing with a political situation together, maybe the first time they attend some kind of important social event on Komarr after Duv becomes head of ImpSec there. 
> 
> **Author's Notes:**  
>  1\. The Polonaise is a traditional Polish dance and always the first dance at a studniówka ("hundred-days"), the Polish equivalent of the senior prom that occurs approximately 100 days before exams.  
> 2\. Placki ziemniaczane are traditional Polish potato pancakes.  
> 3\. Pierogi are Polish dumplings and can be either savoury or sweet with a variety of fillings. Boiled sweet dumplings filled with fruit and served with jam and soured cream are a traditional Polish dessert.

In these reconstituted days of Empire, with Komarr no longer the reluctant conquest, but more like the reluctantly junior partner of Barrayar (all too likely to become the _senior_ partner if the seemingy unstoppable economic takeover by Komarran business continued at the frenetic pace it had developed since Emperor Gregor's marriage), ImpSec Komarr tended to take a backseat to ImpSec Galactic Affairs (and _definitely_ a backseat to military operations). However the planned visit of the Head of the Komarran section of ImpSec to this planet had...kicked the anthill...so to speak. _No_ Head of Komarran Affairs had ever visited this planet before, and this one was even a Komarran!

Not that the Komarrans necessarily looked on him that way, Captain Morosov reminded himself, as he arrived at work that morning. There were still a few who would call him traitor (though mercifully few of those nowadays, and mostly aged and ever more aging). Others saw him as an oddity: one of the few who chose to join the Barrayaran military instead of Komarran business (and he rather thought they constituted the majority of modern Komarrans). A few (and Morosov considered himself within this group) viewed him as typical of the 'new men' Emperor Gregor was increasingly recruiting into his elite and most trusted group of senior staff: second career men who brought a range of skills developed elsewhere into the service of Empire. Most people forgot that Duv Galeni had had a successful university career before he joined the Barrayaran Military Academy. Morosov, whose own doctorate lay in the field of botany, did not.

Normally, his work focused on potential threats to Barrayaran (which really meant Komarran) business interests around the galaxy. But, as he arrived at work that morning, the ants were scurrying furiously to protect against intruders, which meant all hands on deck. Hmm...a very mixed metaphor that... Regardless, Morosov was drawn in, assigned a variety of tasks not usually his own, and found his own plans for the day sidelined as the preparations for Commodore Galeni's visit gathered pace. His surprise visit. In more than one way. It was not just that he had decided to visit; that in itself was new. He had come without warning, just _arriving_ in orbit by fast courier. And, to add insult to injury, and completely breaking with military tradition that surprise visits equalled surprise inspections (usually because of some tip off about dirty dealings) he had announced a reception - a public reception. Hence the upset anthill, as the bureaucratic machinery of ImpSec whose work normally proceeded in the close confines of high security, now opened its doors to the hoi polloi of surrounding Solstice. There would even be a _tour_! That suggestion had brought an interesting colour to the face of the current incumbent of the commandant's office, which had intensified as he realised it was not a mere suggestion but an order, politely phrased, but nevertheless a firm decision. Previously dismissed by the commandant as a political appointee who was unlikely ever to wield real power, Galeni had proven himself quite intractable. Morosov could foresee a change in local leadership following this surprise _reception_. 

At the end of his usual working day, Morosov went back to his flat for a quick bite to eat, wash, and to change into his dress greens. His attention to his two children was perfunctory at best; normally he took a keen interest in how they had done at school - today there was no time. A quick glance at his wrist com, which doubled as chronometer, diary, radiation detector, personal alarm, GPS locator, map, music player and god only knew what else (he had never had time to read the 237 page manual he had been handed when ImpSec issued the device) told him he was running late. His wife smiled wryly when he looked wistfully at the latest issue of botanical journal that had just arrived; that would simply have to wait. He acknowledged her knowing look as he kissed her cheek; and, after a quick flick at his still damp hair with a brush, he rushed back to the office. 

It was transformed. Five mid-size meeting rooms on the ground floor had been combined into a ballroom by dint of simply removing the partition walls. An adjoining alcove served as a refreshment area. Immovable fixtures, necessary for office function but redundant for reception had been draped with swathes of green silk or hidden behind potted palms. The place had been _cleaned_ within an inch of its life and positively sparkled now that it lacked its usual coat of dust. (Morosov could only hope that change had extended to his own tiny office on the third floor. Let's hear it for _tours_!) He had only a few moments to appreciate the metamorphosis before the guests began to arrive.

His position as Jacksonian specialist required him to be there, but as a lowly captain he was also expected to be a silent presence - neither seen, nor heard. One to make up the numbers, as it were. An observer more than participant. It suited his quiet research-oriented nature (his few years, oh so long ago, as a field agent had never quite 'fitted' his personality, regardless of how useful his studious personality had been as protective camouflage). He found a vantage point that gave him a perfect line of sight of the receiving line: of Commodore Galeni and his wife. Or was that Delia Koudelka and her husband? Because there was no question who was in charge here. Galeni might command during the day, but his beautiful wife commanded at night. (No wonder she had broken with tradition and kept her own name.) She was elegance personified, dressed in a stunning Komarran-style outfit of pale green and gold. (The reason behind the room's colour scheme was now revealed - _not_ in tribute to military green as Morosov had originally assumed.) The guests streamed in, brought by curiosity to see the Komarran Head of Komarran Impsec; her charm felled them and they stayed for her. Oh, the superb food and wine didn't _hurt_ ; but as the receiving line closed down and Morosov circulated amongst the guests, it was Delia Koudelka they were all talking about. In those few minutes she had taken to greet each new arrival, she had conquered, far more thoroughly than Aral Vorkosigan ever had all those years ago. 

A local band had been hired. Galeni and his wife moved in opposite directions to invite prestigious guests to partner them in the dance; after a discrete signal from Madame Koudelka, the introductory passages to Chopin's Grand Polonaise sounded. Dance followed dance, most of them Chopin, none of them military, the most 'militant' the lively Mazurka which left the gorgeous Delia beaming and breathless. (Morosov noted she had chosen a younger scion of the Toscane clan for that one, rather than the elderly patriarch who had partnered her for the preceding waltz.) Morosov credited Galeni for providing local knowledge about the proudly Polish roots of Komarr’s first settlers. But, he had met the man years ago on Barrayar: if he had a musical bone in his body, it was well hidden. Morosov credited Delia with the choice of playbook. She was the consummate political hostess and, metaphorically, he took his hat off to her, and to Galeni for his good sense in selecting her as spouse. No doubt it would serve his career well.

His vantage point across from the refreshments area made Morosov ‘man on the spot’ when problems began with the…ahem…(what did one call them)… _private_ arrangements. It helped, he thought, as he dealt with the corporal who whispered discreetly in his ear, to understand the _history_ of this part of the building. (And he rather thought, as he inspected the extent of the developing situation, that Galeni would approve of this approach, historian that he had been.) Devoted to rooms only ever graced very temporarily with occupants (they were meeting rooms, after all, and modern electronics rendered in-person meetings largely redundant) the ground floor had the smallest number of toilets. Currently, however, it had the largest number of occupants, all eating and drinking their heads off. (Morosov rather thought it was the drinking that was the more pertinent of the two.) Overburdened, much of the plumbing had gone on strike. Red glowing lights on three cubicle doors and a long queue beside the one working appliance attested to that. As he watched there was an ominous creaking as the door to that one tiny lavatory opened halfway and stuck. A rather portly Komarran oligarch squeezed past it; an unpleasant odour wafted after. This would never do; all the lovely Delia’s work charming the natives would be for naught if the building infrastructure let her down. 

Morosov stepped forward, bowed with a flourish and a bright smile, and announced the start of the tours. Originally the first stop planned had been the Head of Impsec Komarr’s office on the top floor (it had a stunning view of the park opposite). On reflection, he led the group to the large open-plan office on the next level which had the largest number of desks, and a commensurately large number of toilets. As he stepped forward, Morosov passed Sergeant Tolstoy standing guard by the lifts, all tricked out in his best. Yes, that explained it. He looked impressive but had probably never been the brightest bulb in the box; encroaching deafness and his current focus on planning for his imminent retirement, meant nowadays the sergeant’s orders to juniors tended to be worked around more than followed. No wonder the corporal had gone in search of alternative guidance. Morosov brushed against the man long enough to order him to find a domestic technician. (To the man’s protests about the time of day, he hissed, “promise him an extra week’s leave, if you have to, but get him _now_.”) In Corporal Stephanides’ capable hands he left the task of changing the signs.

Crisis over (he had found the lieutenant in charge of tours, explained the change in plans, and sent him to join the first group), Morosov returned to his post in the ballroom. Delia was still dancing. Galeni was not. Instead, he was deep in earnest conversation with a representative of House Fell. Interestingly so: House Cordonah was closely allied to House Fell since those sudden changes in Jacksonian house politics of a year ago. (Morosov had a sudden flashback to Tej and Rish smirking as they ganged up on him in the Great Game, just about this time last year.) And House Cordonah was allied to the Emperor Gregor. 

Morosov watched, bemused, as one dance ended and another started, and Delia deftly distracted the Senior Aide to the ghem Ambassador who was headed in her husband’s direction. She flirted – she positively simpered – and she danced without pause, exchanging the Senior Aide for a high ranking Military Attache to the Cetagandan Consulate, gaudy in striped blue and red face paint, when the waltz ended. Morosov rather thought the lively polka that followed would ensure no opportunity for any security slip-ups in conversation (though if there were, he’d bet on them being on the Cetagandan side).

Come to think of it: why were the ghem so in evidence at this reception? There seemed rather a lot of them; had that many really been invited, or was he just unable to differentiate the ritual swirls of their face paint? (He really should brush up on the hierarchy the different patterns denoted.) Regardless, this was _supposed_ to be an introduction for the Head of the Komarran section to the Komarran elite. To include business connections such as Jacksonian partners made sense. To include Cetagandans? Barrayar had no business connections there. Morosov worried at it as he watched that dance and the next through to the end, and saw Madame Koudelka change partners again, but a puzzle it remained. 

“Your turn for a break, Captain.” Morosov turned to find a junior lieutenant behind him. “Commodore’s orders,” he explained, “no one is to be on duty more than three hours and everyone is to enjoy the buffet.” He lifted a cream puff in mock salute. “It’s a good ‘un, Sir.”

“Then, I mustn’t miss it,” returned Morosov. 

It was indeed a magnificent spread. Off duty he might now be, but Morosov found himself unable to turn off quite so easily. As he washed down thinly sliced roasted vat beef and young asparagus with a fine red wine specially imported from Old Earth, he was reminded of the earlier problem with the toilets. He was still chewing his last bite of placki ziemniaczane (a Komarran speciality) as he neared the cordoned off corridor to see five soldiers in a huddle, peering down a square hole in the floor, tools at hand. A large grey marble tile was propped against one wall. Corporal Stephanides appeared to be in charge of a sturdy coil of rope that rested beside him and reached up through an overhead pulley and down into the hole. 

“Progress, Corporal?” asked Captain Morosov. 

“Yes, Sir,” explained Stephanides. “The Facilities Engineer left for Olbia Dome on his honeymoon yesterday, and couldn’t be reached; but we managed to locate his engineering apprentice, who identified the _real_ problem wasn’t in the appliances above ground, but in the drains they empty into below ground.” He nodded at the whole. “He’s down there now trying to sort out the blockage.” 

Morosov nodded his approval as a rather grubby hand reached up from the hole to accept delivery of a giant plunger one of the crew handed down to him. “And the door?” He nodded toward the cubicle door which had been so embarrassingly stuck halfway; it was now reassuringly shut.

“A faulty lever,” came the calm reply. “We got a replacement from stores.” 

“Time estimate?”

“Another half-hour tops, Sir.”

“Well done, Corporal.”

Morosov headed back to the ballroom, pausing at the arresting sight of Commodore Galeni and his wife. Polish music had given way to Latin; they were dancing the tango. She looked serene; he positively sizzled with passion. It was a side of Duv Galeni the captain had not seen before. Perhaps Madame Koudelka had not been a political choice after all. The music drew to a close, and the couple parted again, Galeni heading toward the House Cordonah representative while his wife ran interference once more with the Cetagandans. 

Morosov headed back to the buffet, this time to concentrate on the desserts. Amidst fancy torte and fine patisserie, there were, of course, dumplings with fruit compote and soured cream. Once again Morosov detected the divine Delia’s astute touch, including another traditional dish brought to Komarr by the first settlers. No matter how beautifully prepared, the ubiquitous pierogi were not his personal favourite. Instead he reached beyond that platter for the bowl of profiteroles glistening with chocolate sauce, and served himself a generous portion. Now for a spoon…ah – there! But, as he reached for a silverware, he overbalanced and stumbled against one of the potted palms that provided an accent to the serving table. The somewhat top-heavy plant overbalanced, spilling potter’s earth as it tipped. Abandoning his plate, Morosov bent and scooped plant and soil back into the container – plant _s_ and earth, for the tall palm was accompanied by several smaller plants that nestled at its roots: a spreading campanula, in full flower, some white alyssum, a round cushion of moss which was sprouting flowers, and one plant Morosov couldn’t remember ever seeing before, which seemed to have trailing tendencies, with lots of little shoots that clung to his fingers as, tenderly, he tucked it back inside the pot. A pretty little thing…some sort of new variety of convolvulus was his guess…each tendril already budding, despite being so young…so young…. The rest of the plants in that container were not young. He glanced round at the other potted palms in the room. This pot was the only one to include that little plant. 

Morosov plucked a sample to examine more closely. On impulse he used his dessert fork to bisect a flower bud. In its heart winked a miniature camera lens. Eyes grim, Morosov remembered: the haut tinkered with the human genome; the ghem played with plants and animals. What better opportunity to seed (literally) ImpSec with spyware than a grand reception? Morosov took a silver cake slice from the table and dug into the earth round the potted palm, uprooting the botanical James Bond. His napkin served to wrap the plant, which he tucked into a trouser pocket. Had the Cetagandans been allowed on the tours upstairs? _Taken_ the tours? (In all probability.) Like everyone else, they would have needed to use the facilities. (Had the toilets been sabotaged to ensure they were not excluded from access upstairs?) Clearly all the potted plants would now need to be checked, Morosov realised with sinking heart. Had this been ImpSec Central on Barrayar that would have been simple; had that building more than a half dozen plants he would eat his hat. But this was Komarr, where every spare millimetre was devoted to terraforming, which meant plants. There must be hundreds in the building. There was no time to lose. Morosov headed back to the ballroom to brief Commodore Galeni. 

Except he was nowhere to be seen; nor was the Commandant. Morosov spotted Major Vorventof, the operational head of building security on the far side of the room and made a beeline in his direction only to be intercepted by Delia Koudelka. 

“My dance, Sir, I believe,” she offered with a graceful curtsy. 

Morosov bowed. “I am honoured, Madam, but sadly preoccupied with important business just now. Perhaps….” He looked around for a likely candidate to partner her. 

“But, I insist,” she said. Her voice was even and pleasant, but her eyes held a steely glint. “You look altogether _too_ intent, Captain Morosov, and that will not do at all.”

Startled, he took her hand as she led him relentlessly onto the dance floor. 

“The point of it all,” she explained, “is to _look _as if one is simply enjoying oneself. This is just a reception, a gentile gathering to introduce the new Head of Komarran Affairs to the locals. _Nothing_ of importance is taking place _here_. __

Her eyes were compelling as they tangoed. 

“Dip, Captain,” she cooed, “and remember, like any good political wife, a word in my ear is a word in my husband’s.” 

Morosov swallowed as his eyes flashed to her diamond studded earring and his days in covert ops came back to him. It had to be the oddest debrief he had ever done.

As tango gave way to waltz, and Delia handed him off to Major Vorventof’s personal assistant in a pale blue silk sarong (one of Gregor’s new female technical division) to complete transfer of the offending plant, Morosov watched the action unfold. Delia spun away in the arms of the Cetagandan Ambassador (what he would have given to listen in on _that_ conversation!) and servants appeared, seemingly from nowhere, ostensibly clearing plates and glasses while discreetly checking the plants. 

“Captain?” As he circled near a pillar, there was a slight tap on his shoulder and he turned to see Commandant. “You are to report to Commodore Galeni directly, while I,” the Commandant bowed to the lady, “take over here.” 

As the rest of the evening passed in a blur of search parties and bomb disposal (it seemed not all of the plants were mere spies; a few well-placed assassins were discovered – only one the hard way), Morosov consoled himself that he had, at least, had a good meal. It was, however, the longest ‘reception’ he had ever attended as it was nearing dawn before he reported the building clear to Commodore Galeni. 

* * * * * * * 

“Tired love?” 

Operational analysis would be days in the writing but Duv had finally left the rest of it to his aide. His thoughts spun with the implications, and he rubbed his neck trying to ease the incipient headache as he stripped off finery and joined his wife in the bedroom. She sat propped up by pillows, reading. As he got under the covers she twisted round and presented him with a foot. 

“Exhausted – I must have danced the equivalent of the Vorbarr Sultana marathon this evening.” 

Duv laughed, gave her toes a perfunctory massage, then took Delia's book from her and pulled her into his arms. He nestled her head on his shoulder (it fit just right) kissed her hair gently (ignoring how it tickled his nose) and cupped his hands round her breasts (if only _he_ were less tired…). 

“Magnificent dancing,” he congratulated, “of rings round the Cetagandans.”

“I thought that was Morosov’s doing,” she replied sleepily.

“He couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“And the Jacksonian business?”

“ _I_ couldn’t have done that without your help either.” 

“You’ll have to reward Morosov, you know. After all, he did set up that Deal for you, even if it needed you to close it.” Even on the verge of sleep, Delia was still mulling over the evening’s events. “And get rid of that incompetent Major who allowed himself to be manoeuvred into inviting the Cetagandans.” 

“Yes, dear,” Duv murmured.

He had had his doubts back on Barrayar when they’d been planning their trip, but he would doubt no more. Raised in the shadow of Court, with the example of Alys Vorpatril, Delia had absorbed her lessons well. And she had been absolutely right: a social event could serve just as well as the more traditional inspection, in putting the local team through its paces and uncovering problems. 


End file.
